


All's Fair in Love and Porn

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [6]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Axe being crotchety, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, fantasizing by writing porn (#relatable), porn studio au, unedited chatfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 14:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17551847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Lovett and Tommy work at a porn studio. It’s not the best place to have a crush on a coworker.





	All's Fair in Love and Porn

They’re shooting four scenes today. “Light day,” Tommy comments, flipping through the call sheet.

Lovett makes a noise. “ _Don’t_ say that to Axe. He’s on the warpath about bad planning. Alyssa’s going to kill him if he implies it’s her fault again.”

"Of course it's not Alyssa's fault," Tommy says. He's wearing a button down shirt, because of course he is. "And it's good timing, really. Isn't a new guy starting?"

“Why are you asking me? You probably hired him.” Lovett’s been expected to do a lot of jobs since starting here last year, but he stays out of hiring talent. That and fluffing are the two off-screen roles he’s been able to keep entirely off the table.

Tommy shakes his head. “No, this one was Cody. He said—“ Tommy cuts off, laughing a little, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s going pink. “Never mind.”

Lovett knows that nudity is a feature of the hiring process—for the talent, not for Tommy or Cody or Axe—and can imagine the kinds of comments Cody, who’s straight as an arrow, might think Tommy would be interested in.

He takes the bait anyway, partly out of a masochistic desire to watch Tommy's flush deepen. "He said what, Tommy? Are you going to scandalise me?"

“He just said he was good-looking,” Tommy says. It’s obvious from the blush that there was more to it.

Lovett sometimes wonders what it would be like to be the kind of person who doesn’t push, who doesn’t turn things into bits and sink his teeth into them. Those people probably have nice, quiet lives.

“So, huge dick,” Lovett interprets.

“It’s porn, Lovett, they’re all above average. And no. Just—hot, that’s all.”

Lovett’s not going to drop it, but right then the back-office door opens and Erin comes in with a good-looking brunet in a v-neck. “Hey, guys, this is Jon.”

He's tall, handsome in a way that looks like he should be auditioning for a live action Disney film, and even the truly unpleasant colour of his t-shirt isn't doing anything to detract from the rest of his everything.

He's also... staring at Tommy.

“Favs?” Tommy asks, incredulous, and then they’re _hugging_ , looking, Lovett can’t help thinking, beautifully well-suited. If Big Joe ever gets Tommy on camera the way he keeps trying, these two would make a hell of a scene. And they’re _still_ hugging.

Lovett clears his throat. “I thought I was the Jon in your life, Vietor.”

Tommy pulls back. He's still flushed, but it's impossible to tell if it's from before, or from Jon's sudden appearance, or from the hug. "Uh," he says. "Lovett, this is Jon. Favs."

" _This_ is Favs?" Lovett says, just as Jon says, " _The_ Lovett?"

“You didn’t tell me he does porn,” Lovett says, and Tommy makes an acknowledgement face.

“News to me,” Tommy agrees.

“Um, says Mr. I’m In A Straight to DVD and Streaming Production Company,” Jon interrupts.

Tommy shrugs. “Technically—“

" _Technically_ that's true," Lovett interrupts, "but Tommy's job is way less fun than yours." He makes his eyebrows as suggestive as he can: Jon is down on the call sheet for a gay scene, and Lovett doesn't have time in his life to befriend guys who are gay for pay and then freak when a dude hits on them for real. Not that he thinks Tommy would be friends with those guys, not really, but. But.

Tommy’s quiet about being bi, sometimes. He and Lovett are opposites, in that way. Lovett treats coming out as half of his go-to small talk, when he’s forced to make small talk, not to mention the base of half his jokes.

“Uh,” Jon says, and shrugs, grinning easily. “It’s not the worst gig, sure. But you guys must know as well as anyone it’s a lot of, you know. Cameras in your face and holding weird positions too long, and stuff.”

"You've done this before?" Tommy's voice goes up. He doesn't sound mad, just caught off guard. Lovett gets that. It'd be like—like if Tommy had been doing porn this whole time and not telling Lovett, like if Tommy had been the one with his dick out for the camera and Lovett had been going about his whole life without that information.

"Not, like, with dudes," Jon says. He's even handsome when he's confused. "Is—you're not mad, right?"

Tommy opens and closes his mouth, then says, “No, of course not. Just surprised. I guess—no plans to get back into politics, then?”

Tommy’s focused on Jon, and Lovett feels a sudden, intense spike of envy. Tommy usually focuses on _Lovett_ —Tommy usually gets distracted from other people by Lovett. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go.

"Tommy," Lovett says, and it _doesn't_ come out sharply, it doesn't. "We gotta—Alyssa's gonna be looking for us."

It gets Tommy's attention back, even if it makes his expression fall into his default work one, neutral concentration.

“Yeah. Jon, I’ll see you later? Uh. I might be able to beg out of being on set, if that’s—I could call in some favours—“

Jon looks torn between bashful and something else—something Lovett doesn’t want aimed at Tommy by anyone that good-looking. Smugness, maybe; some certainty he’ll be putting on a good show. “No, hey, it’s fine. We’re both doing a job, right?”

“Sure. Right. Yeah,” Tommy says, and startles when Lovett clears his throat. “Yeah. See you on set, then.”

Lovett considers, briefly, not pushing this too, but, well. Of course he's going to. "So," he says, as they're walking. "Jon's hot."

“Uh, I guess,” Tommy says, which is _blatantly_ disingenuous and makes Lovett’s jaw feel tight.

“Must be hung, if he’s here,” Lovett continues. It feels a little like poking a bruise. “You and him never—?”

“He’s straight,” Tommy says.

“Not today, apparently,” Lovett says, although it’s starting to click which of his recent scripts they’re probably filming—the one where the big, gentle service top type introduces the pretty straight boy to the wonders of—hoo, boy. This is gonna be an interesting day on set.

He wonders how _uh, I guess_ Tommy's gonna feel about his stupid handsome bro when he sees him with his legs in the air getting rimmed within an inch of his life. Lovett's on the close ups for the shoot, so that's going to be. Something.

“If you’re gonna be weird, you better switch off boom duty,” Lovett says. “I don’t want you dipping into camera every time you get a dick feeling about your straight bro taking his first—“

“Lovett,” Tommy starts, looking actually mad now, and then Alyssa bursts into the hallway.

“Thank god, sensible people,” she says. “Come help set up the food and fuck stations so I can do actual important things, far away from Mr. I’m The DP Here—“

Lovett, still feeling mean and petty and shitty about feeling it, sends Tommy to set up the fuck station. Let him deal with the oil and the lube and the various array of porn. Let him think about Jon using them all. Lovett doesn't care. Lovett is fine with it. Lovett is—slamming bottles of water down harder than he needs to.

One makes a crumpling sound under his gripping fingers, and he steps back, opens it for himself and takes long pulls, trying to cool down. Maybe he’s the one who needs to worry about steady hands on this shoot. Shoulder-mounted cameras are not forgiving, and neither is Axe.

He should probably say something—would have, he swears—but then Cody’s coming in with the talent, heading right for the oil Tommy’s set up. Jon’s trailed by a tall, blond jock type, blue-eyed with a soft grin. Lovett looks at the guy; looks at Tommy. _This should be fun_.

The blond dude is called Josh, and he's _nice_ , which has got to be worse for Tommy. He makes Jon laugh twice, puts him at ease. Lovett can see Axe sizing them up, assessing angles. They'll look good together, Lovett's sure. Jon's slight nerves and Josh's shy confidence are a good mix.

They don’t do the chit-chat-on-the-couch thing here, but Cody picks up a camera and films them getting ready, Josh doing some stretches, Jon getting water and a slice of apple. Tommy and Lovett get out of the way, setting up for their own roles before Axe comes in and starts making pointed noises about _time is money_.

Lovett readies the shoulder cam, sees Tommy doing his last checks too. Lovett knows the play-by-play for this scene so well: he's written at least ten variants of it, snuck rimming into half of those. None of the other guys they've had in have ever looked quite like Jon, though, never had quite that combination of earnest charisma. People are going to love this video.

Tommy is probably going to—

"All right," Axe says. "Action."

Josh just goes for it, leaning in to kiss Jon hard and possessive. Lovett gets in place for close-ups. If the guy didn’t look like a low-rent Tommy; if Jon wasn’t Tommy’s much-storied Favs; if jealousy wasn’t making him feel itchy and hot, he’d enjoy this. Josh knows how to perform for the camera, and although Jon’s mostly getting by on looking like a nervous ingenue, that pops, too.

“Never done anything with a guy?” Josh asks, holding Jon’s gaze. “Because you kiss like a tiger.”

Jon shakes his head. "You're my first," he says. His eyes are huge and wanting, and he glances down at Josh's mouth in a way that doesn't even look performative, which is impressive. "I want it to be good for you."

The boom dips, not quite into Lovett’s shot. Lovett managed not to elbow Tommy, but only out of his excellent, honed sense of professionalism.

Lovett can’t deny it’s hot as hell, though.

"You're gonna be so good," Josh says, and they're kissing again, open-mouthed and dirty, Josh's hands slipping up under Jon's incredibly straight-boy t-shirt. They stumble back to the bed—clean white sheets, a couple of throw pillows, the kind of headboard you can tie someone to—and Josh says, "Let me see you," and Jon puts his arms up so Josh can strip him out of his top.

Jon is—well, he's—it's not a bad job Lovett has, having to zoom in on that.

Lovett can’t turn to see Tommy, see how Tommy’s handling watching the porn version of himself chewing on the neck of his long-time buddy. Probable long-time crush.

“You’re so cute,” Josh tells Jon. “What do you want?”

Jon shrugs, eyelashes against his cheek for a second. Lovett wrote this line, but it still hits him hard in the belly when Jon says it—when Jon _sells_ it. “I want to ... know what it’s like. Want you to show me how it feels.” A beat, and then, with force, “Want you to fuck me.”

Lovett can feel how still Tommy is holding himself, tight in a way he hasn't been on set since his first few days.

"We can do that," Josh says, and Jon's breathing goes rough. "I'm going to show you how good it is. How good it feels to get ready for it."

"First, though, you're gonna suck me, aren't you?" Josh asks, and Jon nods, looking nervous and overwhelmed and wanting. Looking utterly fuckable. This isn't Lovett's kind of thing at all—give him a man who knows what he's doing before he gets near Lovett's dick—but he can certainly see the appeal as a fantasy. He can certainly imagine the high of making a straight guy beg you for it.

"Let me touch you more, first. You've got such a hot body," Josh continues, leaning up to strip out of his own shirt before he leans in to nibble at Jon's collarbones.

Jon brings his hands up, clutches at Josh's strong, pale back. Jon has long, graceful fingers, and Lovett makes sure to get a shot of the way he's leaving faint pink marks, the way it looks like he's already feeling urgent.

"Cut!" Cody says. "Awesome. Hold right there." He puts his camera down, turns towards the door. "Where the hell is Axe, anyway? I'm not supposed to be directing this shit."

Lovett sets his own rig down, and spares a glance, finally, at Tommy. He's gone to get a water and is chugging it, boom braced over one shoulder. His pants don't reveal anything, but it's not like the bi and gay guys don't all tuck up on set, anyway; he'd have to be all the way hard for Lovett to tell, probably.

Cody cuts out to find Axe, and Lovett keeps an eye on Jon, still with his fingers digging into Josh's back. "Not my favourite part of the process," Jon tells Josh, quietly, grinning. It's just for them, Lovett thinks—just actor-to-actor. Despite himself, he likes Jon, understands why Tommy likes him.

He goes to grab his own water, stands next to Tommy at the food table. Tommy is staring at the apple slices like they're going to tell him the secrets of the universe, one arm folded across his chest.

This has to—this has to kind of suck, Lovett figures. _He_ wouldn't be this chill if he'd just found out his best friend does porn. If he had to watch his best friend—

Axe comes in at full speed.

“What are we all just standing around for?” He glances at the bed. “Or lying around. Time is money—“

“We know, we know,” Cody says from behind him. “You direct, then, because it’s not my job.”

Lovett twists his mouth, says, “Tommy’s not feeling well, can someone else handle the boom?”

Axe narrows his eyes at Tommy, assessing, and Tommy goes red all up his neck. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm good, let's keep going."

"You sure?" Axe says, not moving. "We've got a busy day; I don't want you holding things up, or passing out on us." A clear order of priorities there, Lovett thinks, but not uncaring. A good mix. He wishes Tommy would just—just accept it, give in and go home and stop making Lovett watch him watch Jon. It's bad enough filming porn with someone you can't quite stop being into, but turns out it's way worse like this.

He picks up his camera and turns his attention back to the bed, instead, where Josh is manfully holding himself up over Jon. Lovett supposes that's one thing his big, muscled arms are good for. Lovett himself gets tired and insists on getting to be on his back most of the time; call him a pillow princess, but he prefers his sexual encounters not to feel like a trip to the gym.

"Okay," Axe says, checking the closing shot and making some camera adjustments—which mostly means moving Lovett and Cody bodily around, poking and tugging at them—before telling Josh, "Make sure you're hard before you flip him for the blowjob sequence. And—action."

Josh lowers his head again, nipping at Jon's graceful throat. Jon tips his head back to give him better access, keeps his hands tight on Josh's back. "Yeah," he pants, and of course he's the kind of guy that can make scripted sex noises sound hot, of course he is. It would almost be a crime for someone with that mouth not to be.

At a gesture from Axe, Jon runs his hands down to Josh’s biceps, feeling them out. “You’re so—um—big,” he says, and it sounds earnest, sounds like he’s surprised to find it such a turn-on.

The boom dips into shot. “Dammit, Tommy!” Axe says, and then, “Take it back two lines, guys.”

“Is ‘yeah’ a line?” Jon asks, looking amused.

"Yeah," Josh says, and Jon laughs. He has a good laugh, strong and distinctive.

Lovett wants to nudge Tommy, check in on him, just as much as he wants to try and pretend this whole thing isn't happening. He hesitates, and before he can decide, Axe has called action again.

"Yeah," Jon pants, just as convincingly. "You're so—um—big," and the boom stays out of shot. Josh starts kissing lower, down Jon's chest, nosing near his nipples.

"Oh—oh, fuck," Jon groans, when Josh runs the point of his tongue over one of them. " _Josh_."

It sounds—well. Lovett's heard more than his fair share of porn acting; it's gotten so in his head that he sometimes shoves his fingers in hookups' mouths just to make them stop, because he associates those noises more with work than with play. But this is so good, it might rewire his whole system.

He zooms in on the shiny length of Josh's tongue, on the vaseline sheen of his lips. On Jon's little hardening nipple.

He stays there, capturing the way Josh runs his tongue around it, not quite a tease but definitely not satisfying, until Jon groans, and then Lovett zooms back out, captures the way Jon has tilted his head back, mouth open.

"You look so fucking good," Josh says, grinning up at him. "I'm so hot for you like this. The first guy to see you like this."

Jon just nods, hand coming up into Josh's hair to encourage him back towards Jon's chest. Josh laughs, tongues at the other nipple just as cinematically—tongue out, easy to film. Cody's wider view of this must be gorgeous, because out of the corner of his eye, Lovett can see the way Josh's hips are grinding, just gently, against Jon's, with Jon's far knee up to give him room.

Lovett zones out after a while; these sequences always last longer than he wants them to, in the studio and on the now-rare occasions he watches porn at home. He just frames and shoots, thinking about Tommy, about—timing. Not that he was going to hit on a coworker, obviously, just—it sucks, more than a little, to have the option disappear so unexpectedly.

They've had—something, that much he's sure about. A sort of something that they haven't talked about, that Lovett has been second guessing for months, looks and small smiles and making Tommy laugh so hard he goes bright red and can't breathe. Lovett had been thinking... maybe. Maybe it's something they could—maybe it's not just him—

But now Tommy is standing rigid next to him and they're watching a guy unbutton Tommy's best friend's jeans, and Lovett thinks, of course. Of course there wasn't a chance.

Josh cups him through his boxer-briefs; Lovett can’t help but watch, and can’t really help but enjoy it, either. Jon’s bulge under Josh’s big hand, in the open fly of his jeans, is the kind of image Lovett might hit pause to stare at.

He wonders, idly, stupidly, if Tommy will buy this DVD when it drops.

Probably. Probably Tommy will buy it and feel bad about it and hide it away, but keep it and know that it's there. That when he needs to, if he needs to, he can see Jon like this.

Or maybe that's just what Lovett would do. Maybe Tommy is masochistic in a different way, pressing a different bruise.

Josh presses his mouth to Jon's fabric-covered cock and Jon gasps. "You want to try?" Josh says, smiling up at him. "You want to feel a cock in your mouth?"

"Ye-yes," Jon stutters. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. Lovett has to admit—again—that Jon's damned good at this. He's not surprised when Josh doesn't need to call for a fluff break, when he just rolls them, Cody nudging Lovett to move around the bed for the moment when Jon starts mouthing his way down Josh's chest to the visible hard-on in his khakis.

Lovett's in place to catch when Jon flicks a glance up, mouth slightly open. He's really got that slightly bashful thing down, has the big brown eyes for it. "Like this?" he says.

"Just like that," Josh says, reassuring, and Jon beams, and goes for the zipper.

“You’re gonna look so good with a mouthful of cock,” Josh tells Jon, working his fingers into Jon’s hair. He does it from the non-camera side, like a pro, and Lovett hears a low, approving grunt from Axe that the boom won’t catch.

Someone’s sweating, enough that Lovett can smell deodorant activating. Tommy. He’s almost sure it’s Tommy.

It’s easy and awful and hot to imagine loosing a hand from the camera to reach back and feel out Tommy’s cock—not really here, where he’d jump and there’d be a, god, a workplace harassment filing, and fuck knows what else—but in the realm of fantasy, where no one would see, where Tommy would rock into his palm, grateful for the touch, while they watched this.

Tommy would make a soft noise, stifled so it doesn't get picked up, and Lovett would be able to feel the hard line of his cock properly, would be able to know how much Tommy liked it. How much he likes what he's watching.

Lovett is abruptly glad he tucked up too.

The noise of Josh's zip makes Lovett look up again, zoom in a little to catch Jon getting his first close up of cock, the bulge in Josh's dark boxer briefs. "You're—big here too," Jon says, and he sells it so well, a self-deprecating head tilt and everything.

“Pull it out, baby,” Josh says. “Get a good look.”

Jon gulps—it’s too big to just be a swallow, big and easy for the camera to catch. “Okay,” he says. He gets his knees under him, spread wide around Josh’s thighs, so he can sit up and free his hands better.

Jon pulls Josh’s khakis down a little, first, so they’re wrinkled around his upper thighs. He strokes a hand up over the bulge in Josh’s boxers and Lovett has to hold back his own noise, something he’s _never_ had to do filming a scene before, not even the first time.

"That's it," Josh says, encouraging, his voice dipping rougher. "That's so good."

Even without the close-up, Lovett would have been able to see Jon's reaction, a shiver all down his spine.

“Take it out now,” Josh tells him. “Don’t you want to taste?”

Jon doesn’t answer; he’s too busy pulling Josh’s fly open and getting Josh’s cock in his hand. It’s regular porn big; Lovett isn’t easily impressed anymore. It’s the soft grip that’s making him have to measure his own breathing—the idea of Jon touching him like that. Or, really: touching Tommy like that.

Tommy must be thinking that too: the image of Jon's long fingers wrapped around his cock, Jon saying, "Like this?" the way he is now, wondering, breathy.

"You can taste now," Josh says, and Jon lowers his head.

“Cut!” Axe shouts, too loud in Lovett’s ear. Josh has a hand out for the condom before Lovett’s even found the rec button. He’s a pro. Jon stays where he is, idly watching Josh roll the condom on. His dick-obsessed stare is gone; he looks suddenly uninterested, enough that Lovett thinks, simultaneously, _he’s a good actor_ and _bad sign for Tommy_.

And it's not _fair_ , it's not fair to anyone, but Lovett can't help imagining this another way, Tommy laid out and half dressed over Lovett's messy bed, letting Lovett roll a condom over his flushed dick—

—or maybe no condom, maybe Lovett could just take Tommy's cock in his mouth and _taste_ , suck on the head the way Jon's scripted to do in a minute, taste Tommy on his tongue—

—and Josh has the condom on, and Lovett has to drag his mind back to his job.

“Lovett, I want to see that cut. Roll it back for me—no. No. Terrible. Josh, tuck it back in. Go from ‘take it out now.’”

Lovett hits record; Josh dutifully repeats his instruction; Jon is just as tentative, as gentle, as sweetly hesitant this time, pulling out a condomed dick. Lovett prefers some reality in his safe-sex porn, but Axe is in charge: magically appearing condoms rule the day.

When Jon licks, he’s only tasting latex. Lovett would want—Tommy still smells like sweat, behind him, and Lovett imagines the smell of his cock, the taste. Salt and skin and that taste that just means _sex_ , that’s never had a name. He’d taste like the way Lovett wants to feel hoarse after, like the way Lovett wants to shut his eyes and think about Tommy watching him. He’d taste like—

Axe flicks him on the bicep and he zones back in, and zooms back in, catching the first pink-lipped image of Jon sucking the tip of Josh’s cock.

Lovett gets this hot flush all down his back, can feel himself sweating under his arms, at the neckline of his t-shirt. He doesn't—this _never_ happens at work, he never gets worked up like this. But—Jon's mouth looks pretty and obscene around his first taste of cock, and Tommy is _right there_ , watching too, and Lovett can barely stand it. He can hear Tommy's measured breathing, too even not to be controlled.

"You like it?" Josh asks, and Jon pulls off, says, tentative, "It's—heavier than i thought," smiling, his long fingers still wrapped around the base of Josh's dick.

Lovett did _not_ write that line. He takes his eyes off the camera long enough to look at Axe, but apparently they’re allowing improvisation today. Maybe Jon’s getting to Axe, too. Maybe this whole room’s on the verge of an orgy. Maybe Tommy’s sweat contains some kind of infectious pheromone. He wrote a scene like that, once, although Big Joe refused to film it.

On the other side of the camera, Jon goes down again, eyelashes fluttering. Lovett misssed some dialogue, he thinks, but now it’s just this, the long minutes of blowjob with none of his wit in them. Usually his least favourite part of a shoot—at least endless fucking has dynamism and changes of position—but right now, picturing Tommy on the receiving end of Jon’s efforts, or of the more practiced version Lovett could—

Well. Not so boring today.

The thing is, Lovett really loves sucking cock. The weight of it, the taste of it, the way he can lose himself in the rhythm, clear out his mind of everything but the way the guy is responding, all of it. He likes getting blown too, obviously, but some days all he fucking wants is to make a guy come, use his lips and his tongue and his throat until he's hoarse and red-eyed and exhausted. He could do that for Tommy. He could tell Tommy how much he likes having his hair pulled, if he trusts the guy. He could let Tommy put his big hands in Lovett's curls and tug.

Tommy’s big—big enough that Joe thinks he should be in front of the camera as well as behind it, ever since an accidental eyeful in the men’s room. Lovett’s mouth would be stretched as wide as Jon’s is, his jaw aching. He’d be sore the next day, and pleased with it. He’d feel accomplished.

He’d make Tommy noisy for real—nothing like these made-for-camera moans Josh drops when Lovett turns the close-up on him.

"Cut!" Axe shouts. "Josh, I want better moans than that, please. Really make him want you to fuck him."

There was nothing wrong with the way Josh sounded per se, but Lovett knows what he means. There's a mood you can make in a porn scene and Josh wasn't quite hitting it.

Tommy would be, Lovett thinks, desperately aware of how close they're standing. Tommy would sound amazing like that, with Lovett's mouth on him.

Tommy wouldn't have to perform for the camera; it would just be them, just be Lovett sucking Tommy until he's so hard he's desperate for it, until he's begging to get to fuck Lovett. Lovett wrote this whole sequence: next up is, fuck, the rimming, Josh eating out Jon's virgin ass. Lovett bets Tommy would be good at it. Tommy likes to be appreciated; he likes to be liked. He likes to be skilled. If he doesn't already know how to eat ass, Lovett bets he'd give his all to trying it.

Lovett's got to fucking focus on something else, even if it's the loose threads on this shitty coverlet Jon and Josh are lying on.

"Action!" Axe calls, and Jon dips his head again. The long shot must be gorgeous, Jon's long body folded up, his pink mouth around Josh's thick cock, Josh's muscles out on display. This time, Josh moans like he means it, a little less performative.

This DVD is going to sell fucking thousands.

He must have zoned out long enough to miss some of the blowjob, because Axe gives a move-it-along signal, off camera, and Josh says, broken up with breaths, "That's so good, baby. You've got me so fucking hard for you." Jon pulls off, looking up at him, and Josh reaches down to fist himself. "Gonna get your ass ready for my cock now."

Jon nods, looking nervous-excited. He licks his lips, lets his gaze dart back to the head of Josh's cock where it's emerging from Josh's fist. He's too fucking good at this. _Lovett_ might buy this DVD.

Josh goes up on his elbows, watching. "Take your pants off," he says. "Let me see you, you're so fucking hot." He's still fisting himself, slow, holding Jon's gaze.

Jon blushes. Can he do that on cue? Or is he just that easy for compliments?

Tommy blushes easy too, goes red all up his long neck, right to his hairline.

Lovett’s shaken out of the thought by Jon starting to get off the bed and Axe yelling “CUT!” in Lovett’s ear.

“Cody, move—yes,” Axe says, and they all rearrange, Lovett going down on one knee for the closeups.

They start up again, Jon finishing his climb off the bed and Josh crawling to where he can peel Jon’s sinfully tight boxer-briefs down his ass, a fucking millimeter at a time. Lovett’s mouth is watering, and Jon doesn’t even have that delectable an ass. Not like Tommy’s—fuck. He’s really got to get a hold of himself.

Jon naked is almost indecently attractive, long and tan and confident about it in a sheepish sort of way. His dick is long too, slender, and hard—no need to call for a fluff break yet.

Lovett wonders if Tommy has seen it before. If Tommy's thought about it. If Tommy is standing here behind Lovett, getting sweaty down his back, thinking about the better Jon he can see right there.

Shooting porn is a _job_ —it doesn’t throw him off-kilter, it doesn’t turn him on much, it doesn’t make him emotional. All of this is Jon’s fault. Maybe his own fault, for ever thinking—there are Jons like that in the world, lots of ‘em. Of course he and Tommy were never going to—of course, this Jon standing by the bed, bathed in light, is what a guy like Tommy would want. He’s probably never cranky in the morning. He probably looks attractively flushed after a run instead of blotchy and bathed in sweat. He probably remembers anniversaries without a calendar notification.

"How do you want me?" Jon asks, gap-toothed and smiling at Josh. Lovett zooms in: it's masochistic, sure, but it's going to shift DVDs like _that_.

Josh moves back in, running his hands up Jon's sides, making him shiver, and giggle. That's unplanned too, must be a natural reaction, and Lovett can't help thinking about how long Tommy and Jon have known each other, how many times Tommy might have done just that, horsing around or whatever it is bros do.

He wonders if they’ve ever jerked off watching porn together. Straight guys do that sometimes, right? Maybe. Maybe not if Jon knows Tommy’s bi.

Josh kisses Jon again, looking like he can’t help it—that part _is_ scripted—and then pulls him back onto the bed. “Get on your belly for me.”

Jon lies down like he's been told, and Josh climbs up by his legs, wrapping his hands around Jon's tan hips. No tan lines there. It's probably fake, but Lovett entertains the idea of Jon on some beach somewhere bare to the elements, laid out like he is now, thighs and ass and long lean back.

Josh pulls Jon's thighs wider, fingers pressing into Jon's skin, and Lovett zooms in to catch it. The wide shot must be gorgeous—Jon spread-eagle with Josh kneeling behind him, kissing the curve of his ass.

The boom dips into shot again. "Tommy, fucking go home if you're sick," Cody says, and Axe says, "Just kiss him again, we'll cut it together, I stopped giving a fuck ten minutes ago."

"Sorry," Tommy says, "sorry, guys, I'm fine," and rights the boom. On the bed, Jon has turned his head to glance, concerned, over at Tommy. Naked, handsome, and worried about him. The whole fucking package.

"If it happens again, I'm sending you home," Axe says. "Josh, keep going."

Josh lowers his head again, kisses Jon's skin again, and then lower, at the juncture between thigh and the curve of his ass, until Jon squirms against the bed. Lovett shifts to get a better angle, and then—and then Josh parts Jon's ass cheeks, spreading him open.

Lovett’s zoom catches the pink flat of Josh’s tongue running across Jon’s hole. Cody’s wise shot must get the way Jon’s hands, in the periphery of Lovett’s vision, clutch at the coverlet.

Nobody has eyes on Tommy, and Lovett can only imagine what his face must be doing.

He wants to glance over his shoulder, wants to see how Tommy is reacting. He wants to see how his poker face is holding up, wants to see the fucking _look_ on his face, listening to Jon catch his breath.

"Okay?" Josh asks—Lovett fought for this bit. "Is it good?"

"It's good," Jon pants, squirming. "Yeah, it's—yeah."

Josh grins, not a good angle on Lovett’s screen but hopefully workable on Cody’s, which is more about the curve of Jon’s ass and the dip of his back than the tip of Josh’s tongue pressing into Jon’s tight ass.

Tommy’s watching his friend get opened up tongue-first. Lovett’s been to some interesting parties—well, a couple of interesting parties—but he’s never had to stand right over any of his friends while they fuck.

Josh is good at this, Lovett can see; he's working his tongue over Jon's hole, slow and thorough. Jon is making these sounds, hoarse breaths, hands still clenched in the covers. It's going to look so good, real and close. Lovett can almost let himself focus properly on his job, on just the right angle, the right framing, until Josh licks visibly harder, and Jon—well, Jon—

“Ohh,” the longest, neediest, most _real_ groan Lovett has heard in his whole tenure at the studio. Unless Jon is secretly Meryl Streep, he’s fucking overcome, for real, right now in front of them.

Lovett only has a moment to process it before there’s a clatter behind him, and the sudden sound of the door to the hallway. “What the fuck?” Axe says. “Cut! Where’s Tommy?”

Lovett whips round: the boom is on the floor, and the door to the hall is swinging closed. Tommy's just—gone.

"What the—" Axe starts, and Lovett swallows all his guilt and miserable jealousy and says, "He's sick, I told you he's sick."

On the bed, Jon turns round, still breathing heavy. "Should we go check he's okay?"

Axe turns his attention to Jon. “He’s a big boy, and we’re burning daylight. I’m going to get someone else in here as substitute grip. _Nobody move_ ,” this last in a tone that brooks no disagreement.

Lovett breathes in and out, focuses on getting air into his lungs. If he’d wondered, before—yeah. Tommy’s so into Jon he can’t even watch Josh getting him off. Terrific. Awesome. Mazel tov to the soon-to-be-happy couple.

Jon twists further on the bed, catches Lovett's eye. Lovett—Lovett can be mature about this. He can make his expression say, I Know Tommy's Into You and I'm Cool With It.

Or maybe he can't, because Jon frowns, opens his mouth, and—

Axe comes back into the room with Alyssa, who takes up the boom. She makes a what-the-fuck face at Lovett, silently.

He shrugs, lines up his shot.

He expects the back half of the shoot to feel like forever, with him waiting to check on Tommy. It doesn’t, though. He just focuses, now, on his shots. He’s still—he can’t help being—uncomfortably hard, watching Jon writhe on Josh’s tongue, and then his fingers, and then his cock, but it’s not getting him way up in his head anymore.

"You're taking it so well," Josh tells Jon, gripping his skinny hips. "So good, you're so good at getting fucked," and Lovett is still able to concentrate on his job. Jon looks so good, that much is true, gasping and sweating and arching his back. Tommy would probably love it.

"All right," Axe is saying, sooner than Lovett expects. "Josh, pull out and come on his ass."

Lovett watches it, thinks, again, that the DVD is going to beat their records. He thinks, again, that he’ll pick up a copy, and hates himself a little. He finishes the shots, gets Axe’s nod, and gets the hell out of there.

He isn't sure if Tommy will even still be there or if he's got the fuck out of here, but he has to—to—check, just in case. He pushes open the smaller office door—it's a cupboard, mostly, with three cheap desks jammed in it—but there's no sign of Tommy.

He thinks for half a wild second about locking the door and jerking off in there. He knows for sure other people have. But it’s just—no. He’s not going to do that. He’s going to sit down and channel this into writing a new script, is what he’s going to do.

Just as he decides, before he sits down, the door opens and Tommy comes through it and slams it closed with his back against it, eyes shut, breathing deep. Dick _very_ erect, and apparently unaware that anyone’s in here to see any of it.

He looks _good_. Lovett has a frozen half second to look at him, take everything in in a haze of panic and arousal: Tommy's pink face, his hard dick pushing at his khakis, the way his hands are fisted by his sides. He looks like _he's_ considering locking the door and jerking off, which is so wildly, wildly out of character that it takes Lovett's breath away.

"Uh," he says, and Tommy's eyes fly open wide. "Hi."

“Lovett,” Tommy says, startled, but also—something else. Turned on as hell, in case Lovett hadn’t already gotten a few clues there.

“Sorry, I’ll—you can have the office,” he says, moving toward Tommy and the door.

And he means—he really means to leave, he's going to leave, but somehow—somehow as he's moving, Tommy shifts to let him past, and they bump into each other, and it's so—it's so—

He tries to swallow the gasp of breath, the air he has to suck in when Tommy’s hip brushes him just right—just _wrong_ —

“Jesus,” Tommy says, and then time goes sideways and Lovett’s back is against the door and Lovett’s holding the taut muscles of Tommy’s back and they’re, they’re—

That's Tommy's _mouth_ on his, demanding, and Lovett is giving as good as he's getting, digging his nails into Tommy's back, Tommy holding Lovett flush against the door. "Oh fuck," Lovett pants, between kisses, dizzy and desperate, "oh _fuck_."

Lovett spreads his thighs around one of Tommy’s, and Tommy sighs into his mouth as he pushes it in for Lovett to grind against. Tommy’s so stupidly tall that it’s easy, it’s nothing, to rub against him, but he can barely press close enough to give Tommy any friction back.

He turns off the part of his brain that wants to think this through, and reaches between them to press his palm against Tommy’s cock.

Tommy shudders all through, gasping, and shoves into Lovett's hand. He's so _big_ , pressing against Lovett's palm hot and thick and undeniable, and Lovett gropes him clumsily, can barely think through Tommy's mouth on his neck, Tommy's strong thigh against his own dick.

He’s been so on edge—thinking about Tommy fucking Jon, about Tommy fucking _him_ —about this cock he’s rubbing shoving into him, Tommy making him beg for it, Tommy wanting to make him come.

Tommy wants him to come _now_ , he thinks, and it’s like a fire rushes through his whole body.

He grinds against Tommy, hard, and Tommy makes this incredible noise, low and rough, and grinds back. Lovett feels hot all over, burning up, desperate and easy. Tommy's hands are all over him, Tommy's thigh insistent between his legs; Lovett is riding him, really _riding_ his thigh, feeling Tommy's cock twitch hard under his hand.

He wants to get Tommy’s belt open, his fly, to get his hand wrapped around Tommy’s bare cock and feel the heat of it. He wants to know exactly how it would feel in his hand. He wants Tommy to come all over his fingers, to _know_ that it was Lovett who got him off.

He mouths at Tommy’s shoulder through the thin material of his button-down, and Tommy shoves him harder against the door, says “ _Fuck_ , I—” into Lovett’s hair.

"C'mon," Lovett is saying nonsensically, worming a hand between them, scrabbling at Tommy's fly, "c'mon, you gotta," and Tommy pushes his face against Lovett's neck, breathes wetly there, says, "Yeah, fuck," almost disbelieving.

Lovett's grinding without thought now, just driving towards—almost—just—he needs the tiniest bit of more friction, or better-directed, or something, he's so fucking _close_ —

Tommy sucks in a breath next to Lovett's ear, shockingly loud, and Lovett knows he's coming before he even feels the throb under his fingers, the sag of Tommy's body against him. Tommy's thigh is still there but Lovett needs _more_ , shoves his own hand down just enough to—oh, fuck, to rub the head of his cock through his pants, just exactly the tiny extra touch he needed. It feels like it takes too long, Tommy still and silent against him, but it can't be more than a minute before he's coming, too, burying any noise in Tommy's big shoulder.

It almost hurts, gripping him down to his toes, stomach clenching. Tommy is broad and strong and keeps him upright, and then Lovett is done, limp in Tommy's arms, the two of them panting. It sounds suddenly loud in the—oh, fuck, in the office, they're in the fucking _office_.

Tommy must have remembered, too; he takes a step back from Lovett and looks down at his own pants, where nothing’s showing. Yet, anyway. “Uh,” he starts, and just the tone of that syllable is enough to tell Lovett he doesn’t want to hear the rest.

“You better go catch your man, he’s gonna think you didn’t like his scene,” Lovett says, as breezily as he can. “When obviously, you’re all about it, so.”

Tommy frowns. "He's not my, uh, man," he says. He's still breathing hard, still flushed. He looks so gorgeously post-coital and Lovett just—he can't. It's not for him, any of this, and he can't stand here and listen to Tommy explain anything to him right now.

"No, yeah, sure," Lovett says, and stops meeting Tommy's eyes. "I—lunch, you know, busy day," and bolts. If Tommy calls after him, he doesn't hear it.

He spends a self-loathing half hour first cleaning himself up with paper towels in a Starbucks bathroom and then clutching a croissant and a tall iced coffee, and when he gets back to the studio for the afternoon shoots, Tommy—and Jon—are long gone.

The afternoon grunt work—helping clear the set (Lovett is on laundry duty this week), some editing, and an endless meeting about next month’s filming arrangements—mostly let him grind through the afternoon without thinking about it anymore. Mostly.

But as soon as he’s home and clipping a leash on Pundit, he finds himself on an inescapable loop of _oh shit oh shit oh shit_. Podcasts don’t drown it out; he just ends up missing everything that’s being said. He can’t focus on the video game he’s been trying to beat, and TV isn’t enough of a distraction.

He clicks the TV off and says, “Fine,” out loud in the sudden quiet of the house. Fine. He’ll write. Writing will distract him. At least this nervous energy can be good for something.

He opens his laptop, and Word, and sits, and looks at the cursor. The cursor blinks at him. Lovett closes his eyes.

Okay. Okay, he can—he'll write something not like today's shoot, not a first time thing. Guys who both know what they're doing, and how they want to do it.

Guys who’d just get into it, grabbing and kissing and grinding, guys who aren’t anything but certain. He names them—the names will be replaced when actors are hired, but he can’t write without—Brad and Mark, boring names.

Brad shoves his hands up under Mark’s shirt, and Lovett feels the ghost of fingertips on his own ribs.

They're against a wall, Lovett writes, and then has to change it immediately, the memory of Tommy's strong body pressing him into the office door still vivid. The way he sounded, gasping into Lovett's neck. The way he smelled, sweat and desperation.

Brad and Mark make out on a couch, shirtless.

Mark yanks Brad down onto him, fingernails digging in. He’s so needy already; he wants to come just like this, just Brad shoving him down and biting his neck.

Lovett shifts, adjusts himself. He doesn’t always get hard writing scenes, but he does better work—faster work, certainly—when he is. When jerking off is the reward, after. When every line is an exciting tease.

Brad won’t let Mark come like that. Brad wants Mark’s mouth, and his ass, and to taste his cock, too. Lovett squirms again, and types faster.

It's not quite orgasm denial but it's not quite _not_ , Brad all over Mark and never giving him enough to tip him over the edge. Brad sucks Mark's dick until his eyes roll, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch; traces his fingers just up to Mark's hole and no further.

Brad is—developing familiarly big hands in Lovett's mind. Fuck.

He tries to write around it, tries to make Brad things Tommy isn’t: brash (in a porn-sexy way), and hyperconfident, and calling Lovett—calling _Mark_ a dirty slut and various other kinds of mainstream humiliation-kink lingo.

It sort of works. Lovett tries to focus on this, and not drift to what Tommy would be like trying to act it out, how he’d blush and apologize and maybe even stutter.

Humiliation isn't even always Lovett's thing—hardly ever, really—but like this, with Tommy going pink and telling him he's a whore, it could be, it could be hot.

Lovett forces his mind somewhere else, anywhere. Brad with his fist wrapped loosely around Mark's cock until Mark pleads. Brad pressing a hand against his own cock because this is doing it for him. Tommy's hot breath against the side of Lovett's neck.

He’s writing stupidly fast, egged on by how hot this is getting him. Wanting them to get off as much, maybe more, as he wants it for himself. Wanting Mark to finally get to come, for Tommy— _Brad_ —to let him.

“Just fucking fuck him already,” he mutters. Brad doesn’t. Lovett wants to drag it out more, make them both desperate. Make the viewing public desperate.

Lovett keeps writing. Brad, stripping naked, and tugging Mark's shirt off too, both of them rutting against each other on the couch. Brad jerking Mark off again until Mark says, "I'm _close_ ," in the way that riles the audience up, gets them close too, and then Brad stops, slides back to his knees.

Lovett thinks, _Come in my mouth_. Lovett types, “Come on my face,” because he knows what the audience wants, and that matters more than what he wants, what he’d want Brad to say. Brad, not—just Brad.

Brad’s going to fuck Mark hard again, through the magic of cinema. Mark’s going to want it so fucking much. Lovett’s thighs feel so tense he might pull a muscle, trying not to writhe in his chair.

Mark comes on Brad's face, gasping, Brad's big hands—his hands, generic hands—holding Mark down by the hips, barely giving him time to recover before he's slicking up his fingers and opening him up, face still messy.

Lovett is holding his breath, typing hard and fast. His cock aches.

Mark’s tipped back now, legs up, vulnerable. Letting Brad take what he wants, what they both want. Brad’s big fingers spreading him wide for Brad’s big cock. Lovett can almost feel it, the stretch and the need. The way Tommy’s fingers would feel, in him.

 _Brad’s_ fingers. He types, deletes, types again. Brad licks the sensitive underside of Mark’s cock and Mark almost screams, but can’t dodge away, pinned down too firmly.

Brad is gentle but firm, thorough, fingering Mark until Mark is whimpering, hands fisting on the couch. They'd zoom in on his cock, red, twitching, still hard; on Brad's fingers pushing into Mark, the lube dripping down his ass.

"Fucking do it," Mark says, desperate, and Lovett can see it so easily, Tommy's fingers spread on his thighs, holding him open to line himself up.

If Tommy had asked in the office today, Lovett would have let Tommy fuck him over a desk. He would have demanded it, just like Mark. “Now, now, just fuck me already, put it—“

Brad shoves in, and Mark goes silent, breath catching, camera zoomed in on—on his ass, Lovett supposes, but he’s picturing Mark’s face. He screws up his own, imagining it. The brows up and together, mouth open, tongue behind his teeth—the picture of _fuck, yes, finally_.

Lovett would have done it, spread his legs and held his own thighs open for Tommy to push into him, the way Brad is pushing slowly into Mark. He stays there, fully seated, up on his knees to make the angle work, until Mark swears and tries to shove down for it. Tommy would be so good at this, Lovett bets, his thick ass and solid abs working for this fuck, to give them both what they need.

Tommy’s probably giving it to Jon right now, Lovett thinks, and shuts down all Tommy-related trains of thought. Brad’s fucking Mark. Hell—Brad’s fucking Lovett, fine. Nothing wrong with some idle fantasy about fictional men.

Brad likes it slow, the kind of slow that feels like delicious torture to Lovett. The kind that makes him try to shift his own hips until Brad— _fuck_ —pins him down harder, fingers digging into Lovett’s thighs hard enough to bruise.

Brad goes for Lovett's cock before Lovett thinks he's ready, just wrapping his hand around it and holding it in his fist, Lovett hissing, so sensitive. He's not all the way hard again but with Brad's steady grip and agonisingly slow, deep fuck, he's getting there, shivery and overwhelming.

Lovett is typing so fast, has to squirm now, has to give himself something.

He finds the right kind of rocking motion to drag his cockhead against his shorts, friction muffled by his briefs. It slows down his typing, but not by much.

Brad tells him to “hold your legs open for me,” and readjusts his stance so he can start to shove in faster, harder, hips slamming into Lovett’s thighs.

Lovett is conscious of his breath coming faster as he types, of the way it's catching as he shifts in his seat.

He's holding his legs open for Brad, thighs straining, and Brad is thrusting faster, faster, the sound of sex filling the room. It'll pick up so well on camera. He's hard again—in a fantasy, it's easy, and on set, they can cut and fluff if they have to, but Lovett's seen it done without sometimes—and it almost hurts, a pleasure so sharp it's almost pain as he rocks into Brad's rhythm, both of them panting.

Brad says, “Make yourself come,” in a tone that brooks no failure, and Mark gets a hand on his cock, where Brad hasn’t touched him since he started fucking harder. It still hurts, but he’s closer now, and it’s the kind of hurt he can use. The kind that feels _good_.

Lovett doesn’t take a hand off the keys to cram into his shorts, but it’s a close thing. He can finish this, first.

Mark starts groaning, hand moving on his cock with clumsy intent, twisting at the head, nothing else but rushing for the goal. The camera can see how much he wants to come, how much he's working for it, how much every tug of his hand and every push of Brad's cock, driving him against the back of the couch, is shoving him closer and closer. "Do it," Brad says, rough, and Mark cries out, and starts to come, aching and full and _taken_.

Lovett makes himself still, writing the last lines in a rush. Brad fucks him through it, then—porn norms again—pulls out. In a subtle cut, the condom disappears, and then he jerks off over Mark while Mark’s still shivering with aftershocks, legs down but still wide around Brad. Mark puts his tongue out for it—no, Mark already came on Brad’s face. Mark blinks up at him under dark lashes as Brad shoots all over his stomach and his softening cock.

That’s it, that’s all she wrote, and Lovett’s halfway out of his shorts before he even shuts his laptop.

He's wet in his own hand, and he just—just—goes for it, jerks himself fast, no time or patience to make it anything other than what it is, desperate and on edge. It's so fucking easy to think about the scene he just wrote and see _Tommy_ , broad and kneeling between his thighs, fuck, fuck, so much easier now he's heard Tommy come, now that he's come on Tommy's strong fucking thigh.

He’d come down Tommy’s throat, not on his face—he’d want Tommy’s tongue on him while he, fuck, while he came, he’d want Tommy to look up at him and—

Lovett comes, almost shaking himself out of his rolling chair, free hand grabbing the edge of the desk. He mostly keeps it on his hand and his thighs, only a tiny bit on the fabric of the chair. His chair’s not exactly pristine, anyway.

Easier to think about stains than about Tommy, who’s probably sucking Jon off right now, and will probably have babies with him in some WeHo love nest.

"Lovett was there when we met," Tommy will say at their wedding, with a secret sideways look at Jon. "When we met the second time." Jon will probably blush, and the wedding will be shades of neutrals and blues, and the grooms will look so handsome in their fucking expensive tuxes and Lovett will attend alone, drink alone, and leave alone, and never be able to forget that he jerked it to some married guys falling in love.

Fuck this. He's going to bed.

He wakes up with Pundit breathing too loud in his ear, her subtlest way of getting him to wake up and take her out. There’s still three minutes until his alarm. “I could sell you to a dog-fighting ring,” he threatens her, voice croaky, and then hugs her in tight, feeling instantly sorry. “I won’t, I wouldn’t. You’re perfect. I’ll take you out right now.”

She sniffs in his ear, like she's appeased, and he hugs her again, shoves on some sneakers and finds her leash, gets them both outside. He'd usually just let her out in the yard but this feels better, watching her trot ahead of him and sniff at the ground. It's still early, not too humid yet. Lovett can do this, he can walk his dog and go to work like it's no big deal. It's fine.

It's so fine that he gets a breakfast burrito on the way to work and eats in his car.

Cody’s in their office when he arrives, and Tommy isn’t. “I wrote a new one,” Lovett tells him. “Let me do some revising and I’ll send it to you after lunch?”

Cody nods. “I don’t suppose it’s a straight scene this time?”

“Yeah, Cody. I wrote straight sex on my own time. Sounds like me.” Lovett opens his laptop and scrolls back to the beginning, which feels like a reminder of slamming the laptop shut last night to jerk off about his coworker—who’s coming in, now, looking exhausted.

"Hey," Cody says, as Tommy sinks into a chair. "Long night?" It's pitched on a fine line between suggestive and concern, which Lovett would appreciate more if he weren't staring down an unedited reminder that he's going to die alone.

“Haven’t seen Jon in forever,” Tommy says. “We lost track of time. But he’s moving closer, which is awesome—he just found a place a mile from here, with a yard for his dog and everything.”

Lovett closes his laptop and says to no one in particular, and mostly to the door, “I’m going to go somewhere I can focus.”

The problem with that is that there isn't anywhere he can focus. They've got a couple office spaces, all the same broom-closet size, but Lovett needs not to be around people right now. He winds up back in his car, which seems par for the dignity course.

It’s in the shade, so he’s not broiling even with the engine off, but it’s not exactly comfortable and he doesn’t want to roll the windows down because it’s an iffy neighbourhood. His laptop keeps almost pressing the horn, and he’s getting a leg cramp. The whole scene feels painfully unsexy in the light of day; if he hadn’t already told Cody about it, he might have thrown it out and never told anyone. Stupid Brad and Mark and their stupid fuck.

He's just gotten it to a point where it can pass for something other than a sad bag of id fucking when there's a knock on his window and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

It's Tommy, because of course it is. He looks vaguely apologetic as Lovett cracks open the door. "Ten minutes till setup," he says. "Uh, Axe sent me to find you."

“Right,” Lovett says, opening his email to send the script to Cody. “Fine. Be up in five.”

Tommy doesn’t move away; he just shifts his weight and sticks his hands in his pockets. Lovett tries to focus on the laptop and ignore his peripheral vision.

“Listen, we should—talk,” Tommy says.

“No need,” Lovett tells him. “Never happened. I remember nothing. Lips are sealed, Jon never needs to know.”

Tommy shifts, enough that Lovett can notice without looking over. "What?"

Lovett tries to keep typing. "It's no big deal, Tommy. We don't have to talk about it, it never happened, it can be a blip on your rosy path to confusingly heterosexual gay marriage. You don't even have to worry about saying the wrong name. Mazel tov."

“Wait—“ Tommy says, but Lovett hears a distinctive bellow as he’s getting the email off to Cody using the iffy office wifi.

“Alyssa’s calling,” Lovett interrupts. “Let’s not disappoint our fearless leader with tardiness. Aren’t we filming girl-on-girl today? She’s not going to stand for distractions. Ten bucks says she kicks Axe out before rolling.”

Tommy says, “Lovett, hang on,” but Lovett’s already opening the door, heading for the stairs. He’s not getting in an elevator with Tommy today. Maybe ever again. This’ll be good for his quads.

“See you upstairs!” he calls over his shoulder, and the stairway door slams between them.

Lovett makes sure he's on set before Tommy can catch up, which effectively cuts off any more communication. Alyssa runs a tight ship well, and Lovett figures if he ducks out fast enough at lunch, he can dodge this conversation till at least the end of the day. It sits leaden in his stomach, and he has to steel himself not to look over at Tommy on the boom, can't do that to himself.

There’s nothing to talk about. It’s frustrating that Tommy feels the need to be a communicative, caring friend even when it’s a real hassle for Lovett.

He just needs to not hear about it today. It’s fine, it’s whatever, he’s happy for them—he _will_ be happy for them—but he needs a fucking day to decompress.

When they wrap for the day, Lovett is out of there slightly faster than is polite. Tommy calls after him, he's pretty sure, but Lovett pretends not to hear. It's not his finest hour, but whatever. He'll be better tomorrow.

His chest loosens once he’s home, walking Pundit and pulling Chinese leftovers out of the fridge. He’s calm enough that when the doorbell rings, he rolls his eyes and goes to reject whatever kind of solicitation it is instead of just ignoring them like usual.

It’s Tommy. It’s Tommy, on his porch, with a six-pack of Miller Lite. “Uh, hey,” Tommy says. “You left kinda fast today.”

 _Yeah, take a hint,_ Lovett thinks. “You brought me beer? The list of things I’m concealing from Jon is getting to be concerningly long.”

Tommy's eyebrowless face creases. "You keep talking about Jon," he says. "I—you really don't need to."

All the peace that Lovett has managed to reel in just snaps. "I don't, huh?" He can feel himself getting actually angry, which is not how he wanted this to go. He wanted to be chill, and happy for Tommy, or at least do a passable job of faking it for now. He wanted some time to feel less like he's lost something he never had a chance of getting.

He looks down at the beer again, up at Tommy’s collared shirt—a different one than he’d been wearing at work, Lovett’s almost sure. “What is this? What are you—“

Tommy says, “Can we go inside?”

Lovett’s eyebrows go up to his hairline, it feels like. “What—no. What? Listen, I don’t know what kind of, like, self-destructive instinct this is, but you have a boyfriend, so—“

"No!" Tommy says, voice rising. "I don't!"

Lovett doesn't have time for this, or, frankly, the emotional resources. Ask again later, when he's had dinner and played videogames until his eyes are dry and he can think about Tommy's stupid big hands without wanting to cry or punch something. "Well, I'm sorry, I'm not in the mood to play baby-gay yoda."

"That's not—" Tommy shifts the six-pack in his arms. "Lovett," he says. "Please. I don't think you're hearing me. I'm not interested in Jon."

Lovett frowns, blinks. “Yes, you are.”

Tommy shakes his head and pushes past Lovett into the house. “If you’re going to not listen, I’m going to talk to someone sensible. Pundit! Hi baby!”

Lovett stands in the doorway, running the conversation back through his head. The beginning’s already fuzzy, but the last few bits sound like perfect tape-recordings. _“I don’t.”_ Tommy doesn’t have a boyfriend. Tommy isn’t interested in Jon. Tommy’s in his house, with his dog, with Lovett’s favourite beer.

Tommy changed his shirt. Tommy got off with Lovett in their office yesterday.

Lovett lets the door swing shut, feeling blindsided. Tommy is on the floor with Pundit, laughing, letting her jump all over him, letting her happily lick his face.

"Tommy," Lovett says, his voice coming out weird. Tommy looks up at him from his knees, still ruffling Pundit's fur. "Do you—okay, I'm, uh, I'm listening."

“Maybe I’m tired of talking,” Tommy says, petulant, and then he sighs and straightens his posture. “Look, Lovett—I know we work together. I know, um. I know it’s kind of a weird job for like—but I—if you want to have a beer sometime, like. That would be good. I’d like that. With you.”

Pundit jumps for Tommy’s face, tongue-first, and he laughs and fends her off. His whole face changes, happy and easy. Lovett wants that expression for himself, not just for Pundit.

He clears his throat. “You brought beer, so—so we could do that now. Couldn’t we.”

Tommy's smile spreads across his face, slow, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he says, and Pundit barks again, making them both laugh.

Lovett isn't sure if "have a beer" means real beer or _beer_ , but Tommy's opening the drinks, passing one to Lovett, so, that answers that.

Still, Lovett kind of—he needs to at least _ask_. "So, uh, if you're not into Jon—what—happened yesterday?" _What made you run out on your job if you weren't overcome with lust for Jon's ass getting eaten?_

“Yesterday? Uh—I kind of thought that was self-explanatory,” Tommy says, picking at the label of his bottle. “Not that, um. I mean, ideally, our first time wouldn’t have been at the office. Or so, um, rushed. Or anything.”

That had not at all been what Lovett was asking. But from all of “yesterday,” that’s what Tommy thought he was talking about. That’s a warm feeling.

“I meant, uh. You weren’t actually sick.”

"Oh," Tommy says. He's pinking up again, deeper this time. He hasn't looked up, which Lovett is working very hard not to find endearing. "Uh, no, I wasn't."

Lovett waits, and when it seems like nothing else is forthcoming, prompts, "But you were...?"

Tommy laughs, self-deprecating. "It's not very professional," he says, "but, uh, I—" somehow he's going even pinker. Lovett stares in fascination, anticipation making itself known under his ribcage "—I, uh, couldn't stop thinking about, um. Doing that. To you."

Lovett’s cheeks hurt, he’s smiling so big. He can’t even turn it into a dirty smirk, something better suited to the occasion; his mouth wants to grin.

“What, all of it?” he asks, finally. Tommy’s smiling too, mirroring him. “Pretty ambitious.”

“Maybe not all at once,” Tommy says. “Maybe no cameras or crew. Maybe not with my best friend in the room, because that part got kinda weird.”

"Yeah," Lovett says. He's still holding his beer, takes a swig from it just so he's doing something else with his face, breaking up the smile that won't stop. "So you weren't, like, overcome with the desire to—"

"Whatever you're about to say," Tommy says, finally looking up, very intently, "unless you're picturing yourself on that bed, I, uh—" his confidence falters but he's seeing it through, reliable as ever "—really wasn't."

Lovett is an adult, and aware enough of his low-key self-destructive tendencies that he does _not_ say, “Are you sure? Because you’d be really hot together.”

He says, instead, “Good,” and then Tommy’s getting up and crossing toward him, and Lovett tilts up into him, easy for it. Easy for anything Tommy wants to give him.

Tommy cups Lovett's face in his hands, which is kind of saccharine honestly but Lovett feels himself melt into it, into Tommy's big careful hands, into the way Tommy kisses him, just as careful, with all the intent in the world, like all he wants to do is this.

Pundit barks. Lovett ignores her, and slides his hands onto the planes of Tommy’s back, the warm firmness of muscle that’s been burned into his brain since yesterday. He wants to always be touching Tommy’s back, except when he can be touching Tommy’s biceps, or his ass, or his cock.

He breaks off from the kiss with a groan. “You’re too hot,” he says. “It’s distracting.”

“Me being hot is distracting you from kissing me?” Tommy asks, smile wide. “That’s a new one.”

"Yeah, well," Lovett says. Tommy drops a hand to cup his throat, and it's scrambling his brain. "Your face is a new one."

Tommy laughs, clear and fond. "Your face," he says, and leans in again. His palm is warm against the side of Lovett's throat and Lovett makes a helplessly aroused noise about it.

“Does Pundit need to go out? If—uh—not to assume anything, but if we were busy for a couple hours?”

“A couple hours?” Lovett raises an eyebrow. “Yesterday was more like a couple minutes.”

Tommy laughs, loud and sudden, bursting out of him. “That—that is _not_ the impression I want to leave you with. I can do better.” He shoots Lovett a dirty grin that makes Lovett lick his own lips. “Let me show you I can do better.”

 _Fuck_. "I like a man with something to prove," Lovett says, and calls for Pundit. "I'm just gonna—make sure."

"Good thinking," Tommy says, moving to let him up. Lovett thinks he sees Tommy adjust himself, out of the corner of his eye, and has to stop thinking about it while he's interacting with his dog.

"Pee fast, baby girl," he mutters, opening the back door to let her out, and hears Tommy snort in the background.

She pees fast—she’s always been efficient, he thinks proudly, and then is a little embarrassed about what dog ownership has done to him.

“Uh, all yours,” he says, coming back into the living room.

“Good.” Where Lovett’s tone had been light, Tommy’s is—well. Lovett might not have more than a couple of minutes in him, if Tommy’s going to turn all dark and sexy on him. Even if he knows there’s a big sweet dork hiding underneath.

 _Especially_ if he knows there's a big sweet dork hiding underneath.

"Yeah?" Lovett says, baiting. "Where do you want me?"

Tommy's smile is still sweet, even as his eyes are dark, focused. "In a bed, preferably," he says, and he's still pink.

“If you’re expecting me to perform like Jon I’d like to remind you I’m not a porn star,” Lovett says, walking backwards toward his bedroom. Tommy starts to follow, stops to set down his beer.

“Neither am I,” Tommy points out. “We’re probably both better off not looking for comparisons to the job.”

Lovett bites back the urge to say he’s heard Tommy holds up to comparison, if Big Joe is telling the truth. He can make those jokes when he’s seen for himself.

"Take your shirt off," Lovett says, when the back of his legs hit the bed, and swallows as Tommy does, pulling his t-shirt over his head one-handed with a grip on the back of the collar, like every straight boy Lovett has ever known.

Tommy’s _not_ a straight boy—if Lovett hadn’t already known that, it’s made pretty clear by the way Tommy leans in to kiss him again, with a hand on Lovett’s cheek.

“You’re very, uh,” Lovett starts, and can’t make himself say _romantic_. He just says, “I like it,” hopes Tommy doesn’t press him for an adjective. Hopes Tommy gets it, anyway, that he means the tender kissing and not the abs.

Well. He certainly likes the abs, too.

"You too," Tommy says, and his free hand is just skirting up under the hem of Lovett's t-shirt. "I want to see."

"Uh," says Lovett, not in disagreement, but because Tommy is still touching him, still kissing him, and he doesn't really have the space or flexibility to wriggle out of his shirt like this. "I mean, have at it, but, uh—"

Tommy has at it. Lovett’s shirt is yanked out from under him before Lovett can even think to lift up a little to help. “You’re ... strong,” Lovett says, hearing the crack in his own voice, and yanks Tommy back down so he can kiss him harder, needier. Brad and Mark-style. Lovett knows exactly what he wants, and he’s going to fucking get it.

Tommy makes a surprised noise as he lands, and then gets immediately with the program, leaning more of his weight down on Lovett, pressing him into the mattress. Lovett shoves up at him, not trying to shake him off, just wanting to feel him there, solid and restraining, and it's _good_ , so good, when Tommy doesn't give an inch.

It feels like it hits him all over again that this is _Tommy_ , that Tommy is really here, right here, on top of Lovett with his dick starting to grind into Lovett’s thigh. Lovett wants to see it—he wants to taste it. He wants to never stop kissing Tommy.

He wouldn’t mind being more square on the bed, admittedly, and maybe he’s not alone in that because Tommy’s leaning back and saying, “We could—up a bit,” his voice deep and distracted.

"Yeah," Lovett says, and—scrambles, that's probably the only word for it, scoots himself back on the bed until Tommy can climb up properly, until there's room for them both. When Tommy pushes him down this time, Lovett bounces, and loses his breath.

"Would you—you'd like it if I held you down again?" Tommy asks, close to Lovett's ear, and Lovett groans, nods.

“Thought so,” Tommy says, cocky now. “You liked it, yesterday. The door.”

“Yeah, I’m a real weirdo, liking big men to fuck me up against doors. Nobody’s into that,” Lovett scoffs, and Tommy laughs and kisses him again, harder, hands heavy on Lovett’s shoulders.

He's lying between Lovett's legs now, and Lovett wriggles just for the hell of it, to feel Tommy's weight against him, Tommy's dick hard against him too. "Did you have some sort of plan for me?" Lovett says, and then giggles. "No, no, it's fine, I'm just—"

There is a certain unholy delight dawning in Tommy's voice. "Are you— _ticklish_?"

"I mean—yes, but that's—wait, _no_ , I'm not, I'm—" but it's too late, Tommy's already kneeling up to get his hands on Lovett's ribs, laughing so hard his face is going red. Lovett's laughing, too, squirming under Tommy's fingers, trying to shove his hands off.

It's cute, it's funny, right up until Tommy puts his tongue between his teeth and slides one hand down over Lovett's cock, firm through his shorts. It's a sudden 180 on the feeling in the room; Lovett still feels light-headed from the laughter, but now he feels a lot more, too.

" _Ah_ ," Lovett manages, still squirming, and Tommy lifts off again, tickles him until Lovett's gasping for breath and then cups his cock again, determined. "Ah, fuck," and Lovett's pushing up into his hand, shivering. "In-interesting technique."

"You're fun," Tommy says, and he sounds legitimately delighted. "You're so responsive. You should just, like, um. Lie there and let me play with you."

That's a new one on Lovett, but he's not exactly interested in telling Tommy _not_ to torment him sexually if that's what Tommy wants to do. He throws his arms up onto the bed, grinning, and says, "Oh, well. Do with me as you will, Mr. Vietor."

Tommy grins back, kneeling over him, shirtless and stupidly good-looking. "So I should have my way with you, that's what you're saying?"

"Very much yes," Lovett says. "You're picking up what I'm putting down. You're on the same page. You're—fuck, yes, that—" as Tommy nips at his throat, over the pulse point "—you got it, you're good."

Tommy smiles against his skin, Lovett can feel it. "Tell me if there's something you don't like, okay?" he says, quietly, and Lovett nods, and Tommy kisses his neck again, like a thank you, and then reaches up, holds Lovett's wrists down against the bed with one strong hand. He can almost hold them both, like this: Lovett feels the kick of it hot in his belly, his dick.

" _You're_ fun," he says, throaty, and Tommy laughs and bites him. Lovett tilts his chin to give Tommy as much room as he wants. Tommy nips down onto his chest, letting his wrists go; Lovett leaves them up there, likes the idea Tommy will be pleased about it.

Tommy's chin brushes Lovett's nipple and Lovett squeaks—he admits it, it's a squeak. Tommy looks up. "Yeah?"

"Uh—yeah. Yeah."

He doesn't normally—nipple play is not high on his list, as they're not the most sensitive, not compared to some guys, but this is doing it for him in a way he wasn't expecting, Tommy's attention and concentration, the way he's zeroing in on anything that gets a response.

"Hold still," Tommy tells him, and Lovett says, "I _am_ —" and then loses his words as Tommy's teeth close, gently, around his nipple.

 _That_ , he can feel, the bright pleasure-pain of it. Tommy’s not being particularly gentle, and Lovett almost lifts his hands to Tommy’s head to encourage him, but: _hold still_.

He whines, instead, trying to get his point across with noise instead. Maybe it works: Tommy’s hips roll against his thigh, and Tommy rolls Lovett’s nipple on his tongue. There’s a lot of rolling. Lovett’s all about the rolling.

"Nngh," Lovett manages, and feels Tommy smile. Tommy licks across his nipple in a—well, it's an evocative way, and it's making Lovett want to squirm on the bed, wriggle for friction under Tommy but: _hold still_. "Ohfuck," he says, one word, and holds still.

Tommy works him up and up and just when Lovett is going to have to grab for him, _have_ to move, Tommy leans down and scrapes his teeth on Lovett’s ribs, and then lower on his belly.

“Okay,” Lovett says, weakly. “Sure.”

“Mm, you’ll allow it?” Tommy asks, looking up with a laugh on his face. “You’re okay with me blowing you?”

"Yeah, I'm, uh, accommodating like that," Lovett says, breathy. Tommy has paused at the waistband of his boxer briefs, nosing just not quite anywhere effective. Lovett forces himself still. "Any time you want to, you know, move along," Lovett manages, "that would be fine too."

He both does and doesn't mean it: Tommy lingering here, drawing it out, is an awful kind of good, hot and squirmy, the way that gives Lovett a headrush, makes him want to beg.

“Hmm,” Tommy says, and nuzzles into Lovett’s side, where he’d be ticklish still if Tommy hadn’t already overwhelmed his whole nervous system. “I’ll take that under consideration.”

“... okay,” Lovett agrees. “Cool. Sure. Up to you.”

Tommy lets out a breath; this is clearly, and gratifyingly, as good for him as it is for Lovett. He runs his fingers, with an edge of nail, along the delicate skin under Lovett's boxers, and Lovett yelps, can't help it.

Tommy laughs. Lovett doesn’t go in for being laughed at in bed, but this is so clearly laughing _with_ him. He feels a surge of—joy, something like that. Overwhelming pleasure that this is really happening, that it’s working, that he and Tommy are good together.

“You, um. I’m gonna have high expectations now. You might want to not raise the bar so much,” he says, the closest he can get to _I really like you; let’s do this again, a lot. Let’s have breakfast tomorrow._

Tommy kisses his stomach, down low to the side. "I can take it," he says, and Lovett thinks he hears a yes in that, that Tommy knew what he meant.

Tommy seems to be done teasing, for now; he sits up and pops the button on Lovett’s shorts. He manages a remarkably conversational, even tone when he says, eyes flicking up to Lovett’s, “I’ve wanted to see your dick for months.”

Lovett can’t help but react to that, his hips rocking up towards Tommy’s hands, where Tommy’s holding his zipper pull but not unzipping him. Maybe he’s not done teasing after all.

"Well, the time is at hand," Lovett says, rocking up again for emphasis. "Right at hand, if you, uh, if you just unzip there, you know, you can see all you want." He's _so_ hard, trapped in his shorts, and Tommy's smirk isn't helping—except it is, it really is; he wants to be right here, at Tommy's mercy, as long as he can.

“Yup. Anytime I want,” Tommy agrees. “You’ll hold still and let me.”

Lovett’s pretty sure his hands, still crossed at the wrist above his head, answer that one for him. He nods anyway. “Yeah.”

“No rush, then.” Tommy smooths one palm, too soft, up the bulge of Lovett’s cock through his shorts, and right up onto his belly so Lovett can’t even get a long press out of it.

Lovett tips his head back, groans, can't wipe the grin off his face. "I mean," he says, "let's not discount a rush entirely, let's give it some thought."

"I'm thinking," Tommy tells him, and does it again, a rub of his open palm up over Lovett's dick and then his shivering belly, again and again until Lovett is biting his lip to keep from squirming. "I'm thinking _hard_."

“Not as hard as me,” Lovett mutters, and Tommy laughs, squeezes a hand around Lovett’s cock through his shorts, just for a second.

“You’re pretty hard,” he agrees. “Bet you’ll get harder when I’m sucking you, though.”

"You want to test that theory?" Lovett says, as Tommy goes back for his zipper. "You wanna, uh, do some science about it?"

Tommy laughs again, and, _finally_ , drags the zipper down. Lovett's wearing dark underwear, but once Tommy touches him over it, he'll feel how damp the fabric is, how much Lovett has been helplessly leaking for him, the way he only does when he's teased, and teased well.

Tommy puts his hands back on Lovett’s chest, instead.

It feels nice—stroking, some scratching—except that Lovett can’t enjoy _anything_ right now that isn’t Tommy’s hand on his dick. Which, he’s suddenly remembering, he didn’t even get to feel yesterday.

“This isn’t going to end in me having to rub off on your thigh again, is it?”

Tommy’s eyes flick to his, dark suddenly, his lips parted. “Oh, you didn’t like that?”

He flicks Lovett's nipple with his thumbnail, and Lovett groans. "I liked it," he says. "Of course I liked it, fuck."

"You helped yourself come," Tommy says, his voice going hoarse. "That was—that was so fucking hot, Lovett."

“This is—can you please just—you’re killing me, here, Tommy.” Lovett squirms, just a tiny bit, enough to try to show Tommy how much he needs it without really breaking the rules. _Hold still_.

He's holding his wrists still, pressing them into the bed to stop himself from moving. "Tommy," he says, again, and Tommy smirks at him—fuck, that smirk is going to get Lovett in so much trouble—and says, "Yeah? I am?"

"Fucking—" Lovett starts, and has to break off, gasping, as Tommy cups his dick, properly this time, a firm touch through his underwear that makes Lovett groan, heady.

“Fuck, that’s, yeah,” Lovett gets out, none of it a sentence but all of it heartfelt. Cockfelt.

Tommy makes a hmmm noise and then he’s pulling Lovett’s briefs down and pulling Lovett’s dick out, _finally_ , hand on bare skin. His loose grip feels electric, and Lovett hears himself making high-pitched noises and can’t quite find the desire to shut up.

He's _trying_ to hold still but all he wants to do is shove up into Tommy's hand, wants to have Tommy jerk him and stroke him and thumb the head of his cock; he wants to stay perfectly still and let Tommy do what he wants with him; he wants—he just wants.

"Tommy," he manages, and Tommy strokes him loosely once, says, "That's so—you're so hot, I—I have to—" and lowers his head, takes Lovett suddenly, amazingly, in his mouth.

Lovett jerks upward, hands grabbing for the edges of the pillow. He can’t help himself; Tommy’s wound him up so much, just this soft easy suction has him on the edge. He hasn’t been on the verge of coming this fast since those early, heady college days, finally going home with boys.

And, of course, yesterday.

Tommy sucks at him, loose and slow, and Lovett can't stop his hips from bucking. "Sorry," he gasps, but Tommy is moving with him, holding him down by the hips, fuck, _fuck_.

Tommy’s abandoned teasing by the side of the road; it feels like this is for Tommy, now, as much as or more than it’s for Lovett. Tommy wants to suck him off; Tommy wants him to come. And fuck, Lovett’s prepared to give him what he wants, when it feels like this. Tommy’s taking it slow but not easy, and he’s groaning a little—not humming, that might be for Lovett, but the kind of absent pleasure noises he may not even know he’s emitting.

The thought of it, that just wanting Lovett to come is getting Tommy so hot that he's _vocal_ , is devastating. Lovett clenches his fingers around the pillow, tries to make the way he's gasping sound at least slightly sexier, but it's pointless: he can't help any of the sounds he's making, even the ones he knows objectively are stupid, the _ah ah ah_ he makes when he's getting close, closer.

Tommy’s got one hand on Lovett’s cock but the other is starting to clutch so hard at Lovett’s hip that it hurts. It’s a good hurt, one Lovett can focus on, one that’s another sign of how much Tommy wants this, wants _him_.

That’s the last straw, or maybe it’s something Tommy’s doing with his mouth, but Lovett gasps, “I’m—“ and doesn’t get anything else out before he’s coming.

He has to screw up the pillow in his hands—Tommy's definitely going to notice—and it takes everything he has to keep his hips still, to keep from shoving into Tommy's mouth. It seems to last and last, his back arching, and when it lets him go, he's panting and wrung out. Tommy swallows.

Tommy releases him and breathes in place for a moment, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Looks up at Lovett and clocks his hands instantly. He grins, climbing back up over Lovett.

“Guess I might have to tie you up next time.”

Lovett groans, twitching. "Sure," he says, "yes, let's do that. Let's see if you can break me more."

"It's a plan," Tommy says, and leans up to kiss the delicate skin at Lovett's wrists. "You can move your arms now, if you like."

Tommy lowers himself down so he can can kiss Lovett, open-mouthed and needy. Lovett can feel how worked up Tommy is in the way the muscles in his back are tense, the way his kiss is sloppier than before, and that's not accounting for his hard-on pressing insistently at Lovett's hip.

"Wanna blow you," Lovett mumbles, between their mouths. "It's my turn."

“Fuck, yeah,” Tommy says, and Lovett feels the way he shifts, restless. He doesn’t _move_ , though.

“You’re a very large man,” Lovett says. “I know you may think I’m just small, and that may be true, but you are uncommonly tall and broad.”

Tommy is not getting it; he’s lazily kissing Lovett’s throat, even though Lovett can feel how tense he is, how much he wants it.

"Unless you're a contortionist and you're not telling me," Lovett says, shivering at Tommy's mouth on his throat even though he's pretty sure he's not getting it up again any time soon, "you gotta move so I can blow you. And like. I really want to blow you."

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Tommy says, _still not moving_.

“Is there something I’m missing here? Do you want something else? Handjob? You can fuck me, but this isn’t porn and I’m not getting hard again. Is it something weirder than that? I’m not opposed to weird, just—“

Tommy kisses him quiet, then leans up. “I want you to blow me,” he says. “I just, uh. I’d like it to last more than six seconds, so if you could give me a minute—“

 _Fuck_ , that's hot. "Fuck," Lovett says, and urges Tommy down again so he can kiss him, show him just how hot that is. It probably doesn't help with Tommy's problem, going by the way Tommy groans, gives into it, but Lovett can live with getting Tommy on edge.

He thinks, for a moment, about how close Tommy is—about whether, if Lovett ground up against him and whispered a few filthy things in his ear about just how much Lovett wants to suck his cock, Tommy might come just like this. He wants that, to overwhelm Tommy.

Just: not quite as much as he wants to finally blow him.

He’s wanted this for a long, long time, and that’s what makes him pull back from the kiss and loosen his grip on Tommy’s shoulders. “Okay. Okay. I’ll give you a minute.”

Tommy laughs, self-deprecating, into the crook of Lovett's neck. "You're very generous."

Lovett can feel him breathing, trying to steady himself. "So generous," Lovett says, making himself hold still again. "Very giving in bed, that's me. Has it been a minute?"

“It has not,” Tommy says, but he’s rolling them over. “Is this—like this?”

Like this, like Tommy had blown him; not on his knees or Tommy crawling up over him to fuck his mouth. “Like this, this time,” Lovett agrees. He’s not going to limit his future whims. Or Tommy’s.

Lovett scrabbles down the bed, hooks his fingers in Tommy's jeans. "Off," he says, tugging. "Get these off, come on, I want—" and Tommy is groaning, lifting his hips to help.

They drag Tommy’s boxers off with his jeans, so Lovett almost immediately has Tommy’s cock in his gaze and then in his hand. It _is_ big, and attractive—a nice shape, and several shades less burgundy than Lovett had been expecting given Tommy’s tendency to go lobster-red in the face.

He wants it in his mouth. He’s done waiting. They’re both done waiting.

He just—he just goes for it, just has to, dips his head and takes the head in his mouth, closing his eyes and letting himself taste the way Tommy is leaking, the slick head against his tongue, Tommy hot against his lips.

"Oh," Tommy groans, "oh fuck, oh, Lovett, you're—you're so good at that, jesus."

Lovett knows he is, and he's glad Tommy can appreciate what Lovett can offer. Lovett may have a few failings as a boyf—as a sex partner, rather, but he's got some major pros in his column, too.

He gets a little mean, maybe, with his hand, twisting and thumbing everywhere he thinks he can make Tommy gasp. Let Tommy come in six seconds; let him want to come back for more.

He can—flatteringly—feel Tommy working against it, feel him tensing up to hold off, like he wants to keep this as long as he can, wants all of this he can feel. Lovett can feel his face heat up about it, about how fucking good that is to know.

And at the same time—he wants Tommy to come, wants to _make_ Tommy come. He wants to feel Tommy give in and let go, give himself up to Lovett's mouth. He pulls back, just for a second, says, "You can pull my hair, if you like. I like it."

Tommy groans, hips shoving up. “You’re—Christ, Lovett.”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Lovett tells him, smirking. “C’mon. Pull my hair. You know you want to.”

“That’s the problem,” Tommy says weakly, but as Lovett dips back down to Tommy’s cock, he feels fingers on his scalp.

He groans, partially performative to encourage Tommy on, and then entirely real as Tommy's strong fingers close around his curls. Tommy grunts, jerking in Lovett's mouth. _Yes_. This is what Lovett wants.

This _isn’t_ porn, and he _isn’t_ getting hard again, but if he could, this would do it: Tommy tugging on his hair, Tommy big and heavy in his mouth, the scent of him filling Lovett’s nostrils. The way Tommy can’t breathe evenly, has to keep holding it or panting it out, all because Lovett’s sucking him.

He wants—fuck, he wants to feel Tommy come, and he wants to keep doing just this forever, the filthy spit slick combination of hands and mouth and tongue, sweat and precome and the twitch of Tommy's thighs around him. Tommy's breath is starting to stutter, the way he's panting starting to break apart, and it's so hot, it's so fucking—

Lovett closes his free hand around Tommy's thigh, squeezes, tries to transmit, _yeah, do it, fuck, fuck, please_.

Tommy groans, low and guttural, like it's torn out of him, and his fingers seize up in Lovett's hair. Lovett goes deep, lets Tommy come down his throat, holds him there until Lovett has to come up for air. He sucks him through the end of it, gentle, and releases him with a kiss to the still-twitching head.

Tommy's let go of his hair by now, both hands limp on the comforter. He looks—sweet, like this. Sated and halfway to asleep. Worn out. Lovett can wear him out way better than that, some other time. He's almost entirely sure there's going to be some other time.

Lovett sits up on his heels, takes a moment just to look. Tommy blinks his eyes open, focuses on Lovett, and smiles, soft and slow.

"Come—come back here," Tommy says, a little shy, and shifts over.

"Oh, you're a cuddler," Lovett says, grinning. He feels stupidly happy, light. "I should have guessed, all right, okay, I guess we can do that."

Tommy's warm, and Lovett rests his head on Tommy's shoulder, Tommy's arm coming up around him. His own arm lays across Tommy's chest, and Lovett can't help but smooth his thumb in little circles. He might, if pressed, admit that he likes this, too.

Tommy takes a deep breath, chest rising under Lovett, and then another. Lovett thinks he's falling asleep, until Tommy says, "So—we work together."

That's nothing Lovett wanted to hear right now. He'll—fine. Sure. Yeah, they work together, they shouldn't—but don't fucking _cuddle_ him if you're just going to—

He starts to roll away, but Tommy's arm holds him tight.

"No, I—that's not what I meant." Tommy's voice is still slurred at the edges, but he sounds so earnest—always so fucking earnest—that Lovett subsides, if not comfortably. "I meant, we work together, so, uh, if we—being together, we're gonna have to, uh, talk about that." Lovett's heart pounds, suddenly. Is he—does he mean—"If you want to, that is," Tommy says, and now he sounds uncertain. "I don't want to assume—"

"Assume," Lovett blurts, and rolls over to hide his face against Tommy's side.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Well, then, good.”

Lovett’s smiling, too, into Tommy’s skin. “Yeah. Good.”

Tommy’s quiet for a minute, then says, “So—when we hang out with Jon let’s just not mention his role in all of this.”

Lovett snorts. "He got his ass eaten in front of you, Tommy, I don't think this is gonna cross a line."

He worries, for a second, whether _he_ has, with that, but then Tommy laughs too, hugs Lovett closer.

“Technically, I left before I had to see much of that,” Tommy tells him, laughing.

“I could do a re-enactment for you,” Lovett says, putting a leer into his voice, and then, “Uh, you and me. Not me and Jon.”

Tommy twitches at that. "Uh," he says, hoarse, "yeah, we can—we should do that, fuck. And—and the other way too, if you like. I've never—I want to do that for you, too."

Lovett has a very vivid, very sudden image of it, Tommy kneeling behind him and tugging his cheeks apart, licking into Lovett with slow, testing strokes.

"I definitely like," Lovett says. "You should probably know, if you're getting into this—if we're getting into this—that I'm a total hedonist and if you offer me nice things I'm always going to accept."

"Then—" Tommy clucks his tongue, pausing. "Then you should, like. Let me stay here, maybe. If that's a nice thing. Tonight, I mean, not—"

"I understood," Lovett says, although he kind of likes this spluttering, nervous Tommy. This Tommy who doesn't want to guess wrong. It's—Tommy must really like him, Lovett's realizing.

He can't stop smiling, burying it in Tommy's side. "It is a nice thing," he says, wriggling closer. Tommy wanted to cuddle; Lovett can _cuddle_. "Stay the night. Take my dog out if you want, I won't say no."

“Oh, I see how it’s gonna be,” Tommy says, and he sounds sleepy again. Lovett could nap, too. An eight PM nap probably isn’t the best idea, but they’ve earned it.

“Yeah,” he says, belatedly. “That’s how it’s gonna be.”

“Sold,” Tommy mumbles.


End file.
